


Bloody Clown

by bloodywarrior666



Category: No Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 08:12:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8525467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodywarrior666/pseuds/bloodywarrior666
Summary: clown kill a guy when he's about to sleep. lots of blood lol.





	

It was late, but he couldn’t sleep. He checked the time on his light-up alarm clock on his bedside table. 3:00 am. I should get some good sleep, he thought. I’ll fall asleep in class again tomorrow if I don’t sleep now, he thought.   
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. It was dark in his bedroom. Frightfully dark, the only sources of light the pale blue shine of his luminous alarm clock, eerily illuminating his room, and the soft glow of the streetlamps from his window, casting a faint yellow glow.   
The wind blew his curtains, and they drifted around like ghosts. It was dark outside, and a thin sliver of moon clung to the wide indigo expanse of the starless sky. The shadows in his room were like wide hands in black gloves, reaching out to grab him.   
The sounds of the night filled his bedroom. There was the low creak of the house settling, the constant chirping of the insects from his backyard, and the occasional sounds of cars on the highway.   
He had almost drifted into a slumber when he heard a slight rustling noise from the foot of his bed. He snapped out of his drowsy state and curiously checked what it was that was causing the noise. He saw it, and a short moment of shock pulsed through his body before his blood ran cold as ice in his veins and a wave of fear washed over him.  
There was someone standing right next to his bed!  
He barely make out its blurred figure, due to the bad lighting in his bedroom, but he could tell by it's eerie smile and it's colorful, mockingly humorous face paint, its large, bloated, blood red nose and it's frightfully pale skin. It was wearing a pair of bloodstained orange overalls, and a dirty blue-and-yellow afro wig. A creepy smile was plastered to its face, and it seemed as though the face did not belong to a human, but a plastic figurine, a monstrous, otherworldly creature of some sort.  
It was a clown.  
And, he was sure of it, the clown was holding a long, silver butcher knife that reflected off the light of the streetlamps, shining brightly. How sharp it looked.  
He gasped like a fish out of water. He felt his blood freeze and his spine tingle. He wanted to scream or kick or fight or run, but his body seemed incapable of anything. He was frozen, his body unmoving. His lungs and throat were incapable of producing noise. His stomach twisted into an uncomfortably tight knot. All his organs seemed to be turned upside-down. His legs were frozen and his body was numb. His mind seemed incapable of thinking normally. All it could think of was that there was this clown, this clown here. In his bedroom.   
And the clown had a knife.  
A knife to kill him.  
Adrenaline surged through his body. This clown, he thought, this clown is going to kill me. This clown has a knife.   
“Hello,” said the clown in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, like that of a young child, “Don’t you want to play with me?”  
The clown laughed, an ugly shrilling noise that rung through the room and sent shivers down his spine, “Oh, we’ll have plenty of fun!” the clown smiled, revealing ugly crooked golden teeth. It skipped over to the head of the bed, and leaned close to his face, so they were only inches apart. He could smell its rancid breath, a sickly sweet stink, like rotten fruit. “Have some fun with me.” it said.  
The clown pressed its blade to his neck, so that it cut open his skin and the sharp scent of blood filled his nostrils. His breathing was heavy, ragged. The clown chuckled, amused by his fear, sliding the knife down to his stomach and clasping a cold gloved hand to his mouth. He couldn’t help but to notice the coppery stench of blood and the sickly sweet odor of rotten flesh on the cold clown hand grasped tightly over his face.  
“Hehhehheh!” giggled the clown and it worked its way with the knife, cutting open his shirt, into the soft flesh beneath his clothing. He felt it, as the pain lit up on his abdomen and the sharp knife sliced into skin and flesh and tissue. He tried to wriggle free, but the clown’s grasp on him was too tight. He tried to scream, but the clown’s hand over his mouth was preventing him. He tried to call for his parents, but knew only too well that they were in too deep of a slumber to hear his cries for help, even if he was capable of producing them. Through the bad lighting he could see the blood seeping out of the wide cut in his stomach, and he could tell that the red liquid was oozing out of the wound and seeping onto his bed sheets, dying them a sharp but beautiful dark shade of vermilion. In the darkness, he could not see it well, but his eyes, blurred with hot tears of agony, could tell that pinkish white pieces of his flesh and sinew were spilling out, and the gore caused him to be woozy. He couldn’t turn his head away, the clown’s ghostly white hand was still grasped tightly to his face. Neither could he close his eyes, because the pain seemed to be slowly driving him insane, and for some odd reason, a small dark part of him wanted to view the gore. A tiny dark piece of him wanted to see this bloody scene, to witness his own demise. Feast on this sight, said the small, insane voice in his head, you’ll only ever get to watch yourself die once, after all. He supposed it was right.  
And so he watched.  
His blurred vision struggled, but he could tell the clown was taking it slow, much slower than it needed to kill its victim, enjoying the sense of its victim’s pain and dread and fear. It used its sharp silver butcher knife to twist and turn while it was in his body, cutting and curling and creating art with cuts on his skin. It twisted and turned the knife inside his stomach, like a professional chef preparing a delicate dish. In a way, the clown was a professional chef, preparing a delicate dish. He felt the agony spring up and explode like fireworks, light up and burst around like patterns inside his stomach as the clown made its way deeper and deeper in, into his meat and fat and bones and organs, as the sharp silver knife cut through veins and tear through flesh, as the blood came dripping out, like lava from a volcano. Seeping out and engulfing the clown’s hand with a deep crimson color.   
Life was leaving him. He could tell. The dim lights of the streetlamp outside the window were becoming fainter and fainter. He could hear the quiet sound of the rain, which had begun to fall and lazily tap on the windowpane. as the clown loomed over him with a somewhat inhumane grin of its face. “We had fun, didn’t we?” it said in a raspy whisper.  
He supposed so.

**Author's Note:**

> haha it was rly fun to write this cuz its always nice to write about gore, lmao. the dude dies in the end but its interesting cuz u don't know lots about him. i hope u liked it!! ^__^


End file.
